With Friends Like These
by FrankieRaye
Summary: If I ever get my hands on the Scott Summers that caused this... Well... I'll kill him so Remy don't have to.


With Friends Like These…

         There was a soft scratch, a hiss, a crackle, and then the little match flickered to life. The semi-gloved hand which held it rose to touch the flame to the tip of the cigarette that was clenched between cynically frowning lips, lighting the end, then letting the match fall to be ground beneath a heavily booted foot. His left hand returned the matchbook to the pocket of the black trenchcoat, and the right hand moved to shove the longish auburn bangs out of his face.

         His eyes, red in their angry intensity, glanced up and down the empty street before the man made his way across. Though the lights from the nearby more populated areas polluted the sky, this part of the city was dark and nearly deserted, lit only by the random sputtering street lamp.

         After a few blocks, and a covert glance to make sure he was truly alone, the man stepped into a seemingly abandoned building. Only the faintest glow from the street lamps outside penetrated the darkness inside, but the man's eyes were keen, and the way familiar. Moving across the creaking floor, and up two flights of rotted stairs, he pushed open a door that dangled from one hinge.

         A single candle placed on the floor about five feet inside the door cast an amber glow over the semi-snarl on the man's face as his eyes searched the dancing shadows of the room for the shadow that did not move.

         From somewhere to his right, a voice, soft and feminine but also cold, said lowly, "Do you have it?"

         "Oui," he said simply, his voice thick with the almost French accent of New Orleans. 

         "Put it on the floor by the candle."

         "Dere's no need for de gun, petite… Remy good to his word."

         "This coming from a man who sold out his entire team?" Her voice was full of sarcastic amusement.

         A slow exhalation of smoke was all that Remy gave by way of response as he moved to the candle, dropping a small cloth-wrapped parcel on the floor next to the slowly pooling wax. "De money?"

         "Unwrap it."

         With a sigh, he unwrapped the parcel, revealing a glistening glassy gem of black hue in the amber light. He stood, stepping back away from the candle. "You gon' make sure it ain' paste?"

         "No… I trust that you're smart enough to appreciate a steady job."

         "Heh," he said derisively, gesturing at the gem. "You got it. Now where's de money?"

         "Paper lunch sack on the table behind you."

         In the few brief moments that it took for Remy to turn and pick up the sack, opening it and thumbing through one of the stacks of bills, the woman, and the gem, were gone. Shoving the paper sack into the pocket of his coat, Remy knealt and snuffed out the candle with his thumb and forefinger, then made his way back downstairs and out of the building.

 He hadn't gone more than a few feet when he heard the sharp sound of metal sliding on metal. Without turning, he plucked the almost used up cigarette from his lips, holding it the fingers of his right hand. Remy said nothing.

"Who'd you sell out this time, gumbo?" came the gruff voice from the edge of the alley. "I can smell the dirt on that money without tryin'."

After a moment of silence, he exhaled the last of the smoke in his lungs, and turned, his burning eyes finding his former teammate in the shadows. The butt of the cigarette in his hand was glowing brightly now, charged with kenetic energy.  "Nice t'see you too, Logan."

"You gonna use that?" he asked, stepping further out of the alley, the adamantium claws reflecting the street light.

"You gon' use dose?" Remy asked, indicating the claws.

There was a moment of silence as the two studied each other. At length, with a low grunt, the claws retracted back into the man's hand. Remy's brow raised in surprise, then the hand holding the cigarette lowered, the glow dissipating, and he tossed it into the street where it landed harmlessly.

"You hunt Remy down for a reason?"

"Curiosity."

Shaking his head, Remy turned, starting down the street. "Go home, Logan. You got no business wit' me."

"I got business where I say I got business," Logan replied, and walked a few paces behind the Cajun.

"Dis ain' de time or place."

"There's a diner down the street. Make time."

Glancing over his shoulder, he paused, then turned, crossing the street, heading in the direction of the diner. "Fine. You got ten minutes."

Logan grunted again, following him. They walked the six blocks to the diner in silence, Remy always a few paces ahead of his former teammate. The diner was nearly empty, and in bad repair, many of the neon lights burn out, the chrome surfaces tarnished and scratched. Leading Logan to a booth in the back, Remy took off his trenchcoat, sliding into one of the seats. As Logan slid in across from him, a waitress approached, seemingly annoyed by the fact she was suddenly forced to do her job. "Coffee," Remy said, and Logan echoed. 

There was silence between the two until the waitress had returned with two lukewarm cups of coffee. Gambit smirked, taking one in between his semi-gloved hands, and after a moment, it began to steam. He pushed it across the table to Logan, and did the same to the other one.

"Thanks," he said, glancing around the diner.

"You wanted t'talk?"

"Yeah. What the hell happened to you, gumbo?"

"Gambit's a traitor. Cykes said so, so it must be true, non?"

"Don't bullshit me, Gambit. What's going on?"

Remy picked up the coffee, taking a long drink of it, and setting it back down before he spoke. "If dey sent you t'inkin' dey were gon' get information out of Remy, it ain' gon' happen. Remy don' talk."

Logan growled lowly, reaching for his own coffee. "That the point, gumbo. You don't talk. Somethin' don't smell right." He paused, taking a sip, and making a face that showed exactly what he thought of the taste. "You know I don't take orders unless I feel like it."

Remy fixed his eyes on some point out the window, "What dey tell you, eh, Logan?"

         Logan leaned back, absently rubbing the knuckles of one hand. His eyes fixed on Remy. "You tipped off Magneto. That's how he got out of his fortress before we could take 'im out."

         "Dat all?"

         "Prettyboy's got a whole list of shit you're bein' blamed for. Goin' back a couple of months."

         Nodding, Remy kept his eyes fixed on the point in the distance. "Den it's true, non?"

         "Is it?"

         "Yeah."

         "Don't bullshit me, Gambit. Tell me what the hell's goin' on."

         "Remy owed a few favors. He's payin' 'em off."

         Logan grunted and the two finished their coffee in silence. Neither one moved to leave. After about five minutes, Logan said, "You ready to be straight with me, gumbo?"

         "Remy tol' you. He owe somebody somet'in'. An dat's all he's sayin'." His red eyes met Logan's gaze and after a few moments, he said quietly. "All de proof's against Gambit… so Gambit go away. An' be jus' Remy."

         "With Black Tom?"

         "Wit' Antonia Cassidy. Tom's daughter. Tom an' Cain jus' be nice to Remy 'cause Tonia be sweet on 'im. It wore off an' Remy had t'leave again. It was someplace t'hide out from de X-Men…"

         "And the rest?"

         "Everyone already make d'eir mind up 'bout de rest. People t'ink what dey wan'. Remy know now what people t'ink of him – it's like dat old sayin' – wit' amis like dis, Remy don' need enemies."

         "And?"

         "An' what?"

         "What now? You gonna fight us? Come back for revenge?"

         Remy slid out of the booth, dropping a twenty on the table. "Remy jus' gon' be Remy. An' be alone." With that, he turned and walked out of the diner. 


End file.
